The Clouds Will Open

I'm terrified of losing control always taut, like a rope pulled between two oxen my breath measured and rhythmic like the thump of a drum on repeat on repeat at night I awaken to the snap of my mind grasping wandering thoughts distraught and disoriented by my momentary loss I cringe at escaped smiles of mischief apologize for soul-shaking laughter as often as soul-shattering tears horrified by my lapse muscles tense with it mind entangled as if I have committed some grievous sin

I wish to unveil my reality relax in my own presence at my own emotion extract from behind these rigid, immobile muscles the me that never surfaces maybe then I could understand how to embrace our flaws

I wonder how life would have changed if--when I'd uttered those words, "I wish I had never been born," to the counselor when she asked if I could change one thing about my life, what would it be?--instead of repeating my pained and vulnerable words to my mother so that when I came home that evening she ambushed me demanding I think about how she felt hearing that I'd say such a thing, as if I'd spoken to harm her, to make her look a horrible mother--not to ask for help as I sunk deeper in a pit I had no idea how to escape from--what would have happened if they'd chosen to counsel me, to read the awakening shadow of my depression and guide me through my disintegrating emotion so that I would not have to wilt under the humiliation of apologizing to my parents for finally telling someone how I felt in the hopes that they would know how to make me feel different, so that I would not end up mired--as I did--in my endless cycle of silence for fear that I would hurt someone and be made subject to the burden of their pain on top of mine.

Many years I've spent erasing the shame of my being but it was born in my young in a time beyond memory glimpsed in brief recollection of snaring at the others as they uttered words in a speech I refused to learn those who laughed as I excelled and ignored me in passing except to mock me and tell me how I "talk real proper" all the while denying me the I identity I didn't want to claim anyway I hoped instead that the straight-haired and pale-skinned would take me in realizing that I was one of the "good ones" but I fell short every time Finally I could no longer bear my inability to integrate with my kind or theirs Now the shame still burns when I look in the mirror and try to make myself human in my own eyes only to lower them in the presence of others still feeling as if I belong to nothing

I've never understood why lovers believe touch is so crucial to their declarations of devotion as if the moment their hands fall away others will no longer believe and even their own passions will dissipate

perhaps it's the absence of my own lust or perhaps it is my longing for space discomforted by the possessive-seeming hands on lower backs, knees and thighs laying claim to these women and men as if they cannot declare with their own lips that their heart has already been given

We will never meet I hope you've come to terms with this as I have if not, know I have been broken long before the world tried to break me and I am disinclined to pick up the pieces for the sake of another we will be happier apart where you are not privy to my misery and I am not more miserable having exposed you to my ills this is all I have to offer you please accept it as my love.